


Paint From His Fingertips

by luciferinasundaysuit



Series: Brush Strokes On Your Skin [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:59:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/pseuds/luciferinasundaysuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in the lives of David Kenyon Webster, renowned artist, and Joseph D. Liebgott, industrial sculptor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint From His Fingertips

If you asked David Kenyon Webster, he would say that his art had gone steadily downhill since he'd become involved with Joseph Liebgott. At one point in time, David could create a masterpiece out of a few simple brush strokes, capturing his emotions on canvas the way few artists could hope to do. Now, he could successfully paint but one thing: Joe. Gone were the days of careless, abstract expression. It had been months since he had effortlessly recreated the scenes outside his window. Now, he could only capture the tension in Joe's tendons when he was under a deadline, struggling to weld a certain piece of metal in the perfect place, or the sated sagging of his shoulders minutes before he drifted off to sleep, lulled into slumber by David's fingers dragging through his hair. In David's opinion, his art was going straight to hell, his agent's comments about breathing canvases be damned. Maybe, he thought, just maybe he didn't want the entire world to see Joe the way he saw him. Maybe he didn't want galleries filled with the lines of Joe's torso. Maybe he didn't want people hanging Joe's face bathed in morning light on their living room walls. Maybe he didn't want every art dealer in the country to see Joe's eyes looked filled with lust. Maybe, just maybe, David wanted to keep Joe all to himself. But no, Joe had not only worked his way into David's heart and his bed and his life. He had worked his way into David's art, into his brushstrokes, into his very soul, and the stubborn bastard refused to leave. He had, somehow, become David's muse. Every quirk of his lips, every stretch of his muscles called out to David, begging to be captured on paper and canvas like the beauty that it was. Joe was David's new model, whether either of them like it or not, and if David took a strange pleasure in leaving marks on Joe's body and then capturing them in painstaking detail, then Joe didn't really mind.

 

1.

The early morning sunlight through the big bay windows of his and Joe's apartment was Web's favorite light to draw by. He loved the way it fell across Joe's face, casting shadows across his cheekbones and spilling across the lines of his ribcage. The sun seemed to caress Joe's skin, bathing him in a golden glow, and Web was powerless to resist capturing the sleepy lines and curves of Joe's body. Joe woke up suddenly, his slender frame arching toward the sun. He heard soft scratching sounds coming from Web's side of the bed, and when he opened his eyes, he found him capturing Joe's likeness in charcoal.  He lay in bed, watching Web's hands move across his sketch pad and not yet breaking the spell they had cast on their quiet piece of the world.  Smiling sleepily, he reached up to pull Web toward him for a good morning kiss. Web kissed him gently, trying to be careful of the charcoal, but his efforts were wasted when Joe reached for his hand, dragging Web's fingers across Joe's own cheek and leaving dark smudges in their wake.  Later, he would have to get up and go to his studio because he had deadlines to meet and bills to pay, but for now, he was content to lay in the path of the sun and let Web study his body for a little longer.

 

2.

There were few things Joe hated more than deadlines. He knew that a lot of people considered Web's discipline of painting more of an "art" than the industrial sculptures that Joe created, but he'd like to see those people create a two-ton structure fit for public display. He had a piece due to be picked up in twelve hours, and it was only three-quarters of the way finished. So, Joe did what he does best: he chain-smoked, he swore, he played with fire, and he let Web kiss him when his first instinct was to put his fist through a wall, and damned if he didn't put the finishing touches on the piece with twenty minutes to spare.

 

3.

Two hours earlier, Joe had started posing for Web, with the goal being to finish the three-quarter portrait Web had started a week ago. Now, he was straddling Web's hips on the newspaper-covered floor, hands braced on either side of Web's head, biting and sucking along his jaw while Web ran his hands over Joe's back and shoulders, leaving streaks of paint from his fingertips swirled across the landscape of Joe's skin.

 

4.

Painting wasn't something Joe usually did, but he’d walked into the living room to find Web wearing absolutely nothing, painting shadows on a portrait of Joe that outlined his ribcage, and he couldn’t resist plastering his body against Web’s back, taking the brush from him, and adding a few splashes of purple and blue while brushing the thumb of his other hand against Web’s hipbone.

 

5.

Joe had heard the expression "between a rock and a hard place" before. It had always sounded like the worst possible place to be. Now, the expression came to mind when his back hit a wall, David Webster's hard cock digging into his hip, holding him there. As he pushed Web back far enough so sink to his knees, knocking brushes and pencils out of the way, he thought maybe between a rock and a hard place wasn't such a bad place to be after all.

 

~

David Kenyon Webster was an artist. The world was his canvas. He could paint a picture with words or a brush, and the result was beautiful, no matter the medium. Joseph D. Liebgott was also an artist. David Kenyon Webster was his canvas. His mouth was his brush, his hands were his paint, and the marks he left in passion, always in passion, never in anger, were every bit as much a work of art as anything David Kenyon Webster ever presented to a gallery or a publisher.


End file.
